


when you need it (we'll be here)

by earlgrey_milktea



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Sleepy Cuddles, [noct voice] what can i say? you guys are the best, quiet conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 15:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11808993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgrey_milktea/pseuds/earlgrey_milktea
Summary: it's not easy being the heir to the throne. noctis does his best, but even when he wavers, it's alright because there is no shame in asking for a little comfort from your very best friends.





	when you need it (we'll be here)

**Author's Note:**

> kinkmeme prompt [here](http://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4113.html?thread=6038289#cmt6038289)
> 
> anon wanted noct cuddles from his bros and though i didn't really manage to write as many cuddles as i wanted, i hope this can offer at least some kind of comfort. honestly noct needs all the comfort he can get,,

A knock on the door diverts Ignis’ attention from the task at hand. He looks up to find Noctis stepping in, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched in. The very picture of upset.

“Specs? What are you doing?”

Ignis glances back to the dress shirt in his hands. “Folding your clothes, Your Highness.”

Noctis scowls fiercely at the title. Ignis blinks. He thinks about the agenda planned for Noctis today. It was much the usual, but there was a scheduled dinner with the King. Noctis usually looked forward to those, though, no matter how much he lamented about having to eat every vegetable on the plate. But he is starting high school soon. So far, Noctis has not yet managed to make a single friend in all his years of public school, which does not bode well for his interactions with his citizens when he ascends the throne. (Sometimes, Ignis wishes he was the same age as Noctis, if only he can nudge him in the right direction during school hours, too. But, like his uncle reminds him, there are certain things the young prince must figure out on his own.) Perhaps the King reminded Noctis about that fact.

Ignis adjusts his glasses. “Would, ah, would you like to help me, Noct?”

The scowl disappears, replaced with a hesitant expression. “I guess.”

Noctis perches next to Ignis on the couch. At nearly fifteen, Noctis is still scrawny for his age, but he’s shooting up fast. (Not as fast as Ignis, though. Which is starting to concern Ignis, because while being tall is useful, being tall is also attention-garnering, and he’s firmly decided that is not something a royal advisor should want nor need.) For now, the boy prince is awkward and lanky and has no idea how to fold clothes.

Ignis hands over a shirt, and grabs one for himself. He begins folding again, watching Noctis copy his movements from the corner of his eye. Noctis’ folds are clumsy and uneven, but passable. He reaches for another shirt without Ignis’ prompting.

“Is something the matter?” Ignis asks.

“No,” is the immediate, grumbled reply. Dipping his head, Ignis backs off. He wordlessly corrects Noctis’ folding, and watches as the boy meekly redoes it. They sit there, folding clothes in companionable silence.

“Specs?” Noctis says eventually. He waits until Ignis gives a little hum of acknowledge before continuing. “How did you... how did you get so good at. You know.” He waves a hand vaguely in Ignis’ direction. “All this.”

“I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean.”

Noctis huffs. “I just—How come you’re so good at everything? You’re barely older than me, right, but you can do everything and do it well and I’m supposed to be the prince of this gods damned kingdom but I can’t even fold clothes properly.”

Ignis blinks. “Language, Noct,” he says absently. He looks down at the boxers in his hands, and then back up at the frustrated frown on Noctis’ face. “I do not think I’m particularly ‘good at everything,’” he says slowly. “I do strive to perform to the best of my abilities, always, but it’s nothing extraordinary. I do what is required of me, and I apply myself where I think I should. That’s all.”

“So you’re saying you’re just a hard worker?”

“Perhaps.” Ignis studies Noctis. “In my opinion, Noct, the learning process makes up half of the success. Everyone starts by learning and making mistakes. I feel it’s the only way to improve.”

Noctis remains quiet, concentrating on the pair of jeans in his hands. Then, hesitantly, he says, “Even Kings? Or—or Kings-to-be, I guess. Whatever I’m supposed to be.”

“Yes,” Ignis says. He puts aside the folded boxers, and gently tugs the jeans from Noctis’ hand. He turns to Noctis and takes one of the boy’s hands into his own. “Noct. You may be the heir to the throne, but before that, you are human. Just like the rest of us. And do you know what that means?”

“That my mortality rate is pretty high?”

“No,” sighs Ignis. “It means you’re allowed to make mistakes. You’re allowed to be bad at something before you’re good at it.” He squeezes Noctis’ hand until blue eyes meet his. “It means you’re allowed to ask for help if you need it. There’s no shame in admitting you can’t do everything alone.”

Noctis holds his gaze, eyes wide and looking so young. Ignis can remember being on the cusp of fifteen, but he’s never been a prince. He’s only ever been behind his prince, watching his prince grow, wanting only the best for his prince. He squeezes Noctis’ hand again, and this time, Noctis squeezes back.

They work through the rest of the clean clothes, together.

 

 

 

 

When Noctis doesn’t even stick his head out of the tent after Ignis calls for dinner, Gladio figures something is up. He sets aside his half-eaten meal and waves Ignis off. Quietly, Gladio ducks into the tent.

“Noct? Did you fall asleep?”

At first, there’s no answer. Gladio frowns. The sleeping bags are pushed aside, messily, and the extra blankets and pillows are piled up by the lump in the corner. It takes him a moment to determine that the lump in the corner is Noctis. Only a tuft of his black hair sticks out in the cocoon he’s wrapped himself in.

“Noctis?”

There’s a grunt this time. Gladio shuffles over so he can tug the blankets off Noctis. The boy’s wearing a terrible expression, eyes closed and jaw locked tight. Ah, shit.

“Hey, Noct,” Gladio says softly. He kneels next to the boy, brushing aside his bangs. He’s not burning up, at least. “Talk to me, kid.”

Blue eyes squint up at him, hazy with pain. “Gladio?” Noctis groans. “I feel like shit.”

“You kind of look it, too,” says Gladio. “What’s up? Dinner’s waiting for you outside.”

“Oh. I’m... not hungry.”

“Okay. Do you want to at least sit up?”

Noctis’ face contorts into a grimace. His voice is weak when he goes, “I don’t think I can.”

Ah, double shit. “Is it your back?”

“Yeah.” Noctis’ eyes have slipped shut, but his brows are furrowed. “Gladio, it—it hurts.”

Seeing him like this hurts Gladio, too. Noctis is somewhat shy of what a future king might be, but he’s been raised to be proud, and somehow he’s taught himself to be quiet about his worries, his weaknesses. For him to admit that he’s in pain—it must hurt a hell of a lot. Gladio wants to punch something, but this isn’t something he can fix by beating the crap out of whatever’s hurting his prince, his brother in arms, his friend. There isn’t really much he can do about this, and it fucking sucks.

“Okay,” Gladio says. “Come on. Let me help.”

With Noctis’ cooperation, Gladio manages to roll the boy over onto his front. He opens the sleeping bag all the way, props the pillows up to give Noctis as much comfort as he can. Noctis moves slowly, lips pressed together so hard they’ve turned pale. Gladio braces his knees on the tent floor.

“I’ll go slow,” he tells Noctis. “Tell me if you need me to stop.” His only reply is a muffled whine.

Carefully, with practised hands, Gladio presses into the tense muscles along Noctis’ back. He kneads his thumbs into the small of his back, slowly working his way up. Noctis, for the most part, just lies there, letting out a pained whimper every so often. Gladio can’t see his face, but he knows from years of accompanying Noctis through his physical therapy the kind of scowl he’s wearing right now. Gladio doesn’t say anything. He just focuses on loosening the knots along Noctis’ spine.

Ignis and Prompto must have finished their dinner by now, but neither of them come interrupt. Noctis’ breathing has evened out slightly.  Gladio sits back, tugging the blankets back over the other boy’s body.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

Noctis stirs. He rolls over onto his side and blinks up at Gladio. “It’s fine,” he says. He struggles to push himself up, but his arms waver, and he nearly lands on his face again if Gladio didn’t reach out to steady him. He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I hate this. Whoever heard of a King that can’t even move his own body?”

“Hey,” Gladio says sharply. “It’s not your fault that you sustained a near-fatal injury when you were a child. It’s not like you haven’t worked to overcome that.”

“I know,” Noctis says through gritted teeth. “But it doesn't make me feel less useless.”

He won’t meet Gladio’s eyes. Gladio can read him just fine anyway: the clenched fingers over his sleeping bag, the bitter tilt of his lips, the slumped shoulders. The boy looks the same unsure teenager he was and yet so much older than he should be at twenty. Not for the first time, Gladio wonders what Noctis would have been like if he wasn’t born into royalty. Louder, maybe. Happier.

“You’re not useless,” Gladio says. “If you’re useless, then the rest of us might as well be dead grass. Noctis.” He waits until Noctis lifts his gaze to his. “Nobody blames you for things you have no control over. Nobody blames you for being human.” _So you should stop blaming yourself, too,_ he doesn’t add. He doesn’t need to.

Noctis is quiet for a moment. Then he huffs out a laugh. “Specs said the same thing to me once,” he says.

“I’m not surprised. The guy’s wiser than all three of us combined.” Gladio reaches over and ruffles Noctis’ hair. “I’m going to go see if I can persuade Iggy to bring food in here, okay? You just sit tight and look pretty.”

Noctis nods. His eyes are closed when he mumbles, “Thanks.”

Gladio just pats his head, keeping his palm pressed into those messy dark locks, and watches his king breathe in, breathe out.

 

 

 

 

Prompto can’t sleep.

It’s not unusual. He’s always had a tough time falling asleep, probably a habit he picked up by staying up waiting to hear the turning of a key in the front door that rarely ever came. It doesn’t help that his brain always seems to miss the memo that night time is quiet time. Then the road trip happened, and then Insomnia fell, and then sleep is pretty much a gamble each time the sun goes down.

So he’s awake when Noctis flails in the hotel bed next to him, quickly tangling his limbs within the sheets. He’s making small, aborted noises at the back of his throat, as if he wants to scream but can’t quite figure out how. Prompto sits up.

“Noct?” he whispers. “Buddy, you gotta wake up.”

When Noctis only attempts to roll over, Prompto casts a worried glance across the room, where Ignis and Gladio are sleeping. They haven’t stirred, Gladio’s snores filling the room in a steady rhythm, Ignis lying still and silent on his back. They’d been on a hunt all day, so it was no surprise when they all crashed the moment they hit the bed. But Noctis is in distress, and Prompto doesn’t really know what to do.

“Noct,” he tries again, reaching out to shake his friend’s shoulder. He flinches back when Noctis’ eyes snap open and he lashes out at Prompto. Noctis looks like a cornered wild animal, and Prompto can’t help the flash of fear that shoots through him at the sight of his best friend like this.

Recognition flickers back into midnight blue eyes, and Noctis seems to curl into himself. “Sorry,” he mutters. He glares at the sheets still tangled around his legs.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. We—we’ve all had nightmares.”

“Yeah, I know, I just—” Noctis drags a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

Hesitantly, Prompto reaches out and grips Noctis’ shoulder. “You okay? Do you wanna.... talk about it?”

“No.” When Prompto winces, Noctis sighs at the harshness of his own voice. He stares down at his clenched hands. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Nah,” Prompto says. “Couldn’t sleep, anyway.”

The scowl on Noctis’ face softens into a frown of concern. “Again? Are you okay?”

“Dude, I asked you first.”

“Fine,” says Noctis, rolling his eyes. He pauses, and then he’s tugging at Prompto’s shirt. It takes Prompto a second to understand, and then he’s turning his body to allow Noctis to shuffle into his space. He puts his arms around Noctis, who has his face buried into the crook of his neck. Prompto threads his fingers through Noctis’ dark hair, petting him absently.

“Guess we both can’t sleep, huh,” he says.

“Sleep is for the weak,” is Noctis’ muffled reply.

“I don’t know. It kinda feels like we’re the ones losing, losing sleep because of these darn nightmares.”

Prompto can feel Noctis’ fingers clenching around the back of his shirt. He turns his face into Noctis’ hair. They listen to Gladio’s snores for a while.

“I keep seeing dad,” Noctis confesses quietly. Prompto tightens his hold on Noctis. “The look on his face, that last day, I—I didn’t even... I didn’t even bother to say goodbye. It was just supposed to be a road trip, I was supposed to go back, and I—” Noctis chokes a little, and Prompto rocks them slightly from side to side. “He knew,” Noctis whispers. “He knew and he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. He just let me go.”

Prompto swallows. “Yeah,” he says, because there’s nothing else to say.

“I wish he said something. He could have—We could have, I don’t know, fuck, I just—”

“I know,” Prompto says, stroking Noctis’ hair. “He was just trying to save you.”

“But I don’t want saving,” Noctis says, voice cracking, “I should have been there—”

“Noct.” Prompto backs up enough to hold Noctis’ face in his hands. He thumbs away the bit of wetness gathered at the corners of Noctis’ eyes. “I know it hurts and it sucks, it really does, but listen, okay? It wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. You’re doing the best you can and that’s... that’s more than enough, Noct.”

Noctis stares at him, eyes wide in a rare occasion, wide enough that Prompto is tempted to look away because his friend looks almost too vulnerable, too young. Prompto holds on anyway.

Eventually, Noctis closes his eyes, and Prompto lets him go. He doesn’t mention it when Noctis swipes at his face. He doesn’t move back, stays close enough for Noctis to know he’s still there, he will always be there.

“I’m okay,” he says. He pauses, and then peeks up at Prompto. “Can I—Can we...?”

Prompto doesn’t need to ask. They’ve done this often enough during sleepovers back in high school. Gods, that feels like a lifetime ago. He shuffles until they’re both lying down, holds up the covers until Noctis is squeezed up against him and their limbs sort themselves out into a familiar hold. He tucks his chin over Noctis’ head.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” mumbles Noctis. His hand is bunched up at the hem of Prompto’s shirt. They lie there in silence, settling back into drowsiness. Then Noctis whispers, “Thanks, Prompto.”

Prompto slides his hand along Noctis’ back, up and down until the tension in Noctis’ body fades a little, and he can feel his friend sigh softly against his chest.

“No prob, Noct,” he whispers back. “Anything you need.”

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> #letnoctrest  
> he's doing his best okay!!
> 
> pls come talk to me about these kids @puddingcatbae on tumblr and twitter


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